Plucked from the hands of evil incarnate
by MLaw
Summary: Solo is badly in need of rescuing. This story is a prequel of sorts to the story "Solo". pre-saga


A **trio** of U.N.C.L.E. agents dressed in khaki clothing crept through the bushes as they neared their target; a well fortified hacienda nestled amongst Sabal mexicana palms that towered above its red tiled roof.

In the distance echoed the calls of howler monkeys. Mosquitoes buzzed annoyingly and were swatted away by the agents hands as they came upon a set of locked gates.

A faded wooden sign read: 'Doce Robles'... Twelve Oaks, presumably so named after the Wilkinson plantation in 'Gone with the Wind.' This place was far from hospitable as the fictitious southern one had been. Strangely enough, there wasn't an oak tree in sight.

The house was decrepit and well past its prime with once white stucco faded and chipping away. Vines and weeds crept everywhere.

This Mexican plantation had once, no doubt, been a place of splendor but it had become the doorway to a **black** hole within; this place had one purpose now, and that was the infliction of pain followed by death.

Rodrigo Dos Santos was touted as a T.H.R.U.S.H. expert in torture. Considered one of of their best at getting information out of a subject while causing them exquisite agony; he kept them alive enough to endure his depravity for as long as it gave him amusement.

He was like a cat playing with its meal. Still a cat eventually stops playing and eats its food. This man continued the play as it was all about the inflicting of the torture itself.

He took pleasure in it, and getting a subject to break was not really his personal goal, though it was a requirement of his employers. No, his joy was seeing how much suffering he could force a human being endure.

Dos Santos was evil incarnate and working for THRUSH was to him, a dream job, and they saw to it he never wanted for work.

The three agents came to a halt having silently scaled the tall stucco wall that surrounded the house.

Mark Slate led the way with his partner April Dancer following behind him, and bringing up the rear was Agent Hector Quesada, from the UNCLE field office near Acapulco. Though Slate and Dancer both spoke Spanish, it was deemed a native speaker would help them get to where they needed more quickly. Hector knew the area well having grown up nearby, when the plantation was vibrant and a place of beauty.

Their mission was to rescue Napoleon Solo who'd been taken prisoner by Dos Santos. Their only hope was that the madman hadn't broken the spirit of the UNCLE CEA, as well as his body.

Slate opened the unguarded front door, praying for no squeaky hinge...

There was blessed silence.

Dos Santos, an egomaniac in his own right, apparently felt he needed no guards. Only his walls surrounding his out of the way house of horrors was enough, or so he thought; his type usually did. No one could touch him, that's what he believed.

Mark signalled with his hands for them to fan out, taking slow and careful steps with their weapons drawn.

They searched the interior of the house finding nothing, but then April heard it...a blood curdling scream coming from below.

"There must be a basement,"she whispered into her communicator.

"Right luv. On my way," Mark answered. Quesada was right behind him.

When they arrived, she pointed out where she'd heard it, but after searching they found no door.

"Shussh...hear that?" Mark said.

There were footsteps coming from behind a bookcase.

Ducking out of sight; they watched as the case swung open like a door and out walked Dos Santos.

Slate held up his hand, signalling to wait. Finding Napoleon took precedence; once he was safe, this THRUSH bastard was a dead man.

Hector remained upstairs to keep watch while Mark and April descended into darkness. Feeling their way along the wall, they moved down the stairs with the aid of a small flashlight; the rancid odor death wafted upwards, assaulted their senses as they reached the bottom of the staircase.

They emerged to a gruesome sight; hooks in the rafters with dessicated corpses hanging everywhere from them, and the bones of yet more victims were scattered about the floor.

Laying on a crude wooden table were a multitude of medical instruments, knives and countless other implements used by Dos Santos to inflict his brand of torture.

From the shadows they heard a soft moan.

"Napoleon?"Mark called.

"Here," Solo groaned.

Slate pointed the flashlight in the direction of his direction.

"Oh God!" April gasped as she saw Napoleon naked from the waist up, hanging by his wrists and covered in blood. His face was bruised, his arms and chest had been sliced with a razor, again and again.

Slate cut the ropes, helping Solo down to his feet with a grunt. Despite his wounds Napoleon was strong enough to walk unassisted, and not having a gun; he grabbed one of the knives lying on the nearby table.

Together the three quickly climbed the steps out of this place of suffering, this purgatory.

Hector Quesada was standing there facing them when they emerged, yet he was wide-eyed and motionless. Suddenly blood gurgled from his mouth and his body fell at their feet; a large meat cleaver embedded in his back.

Rodrigo was standing there, laughing maniacally as only one of his ilk could. His hair was slicked back, and he looked as though he hadn't bathed in sometime. A black rubber apron covered his wrinkled linen suit.

"Where do you think you are going?" He aimed a luger straight at them, yet his dark eyes focused on April. "Ah a lovely señorita? Perhaps I will start with her and you two can watch. Women squeal so nicely...the whores that they are."

Without warning Solo threw the blade in his hand, finding its target in Rodrigo Dos Santos' eye.

The man collapsed to the floor, but the UNCLE agents had no interest in checking on him and merely kicked away his gun.

They retrieved the body of Hector Quesada, wrapping it in a blanket as they laid him with reverence in a jeep that belonged to Dos Santos.

Black clouds of smoke spiralled up into the air as flames crackled. Solo and Slate had poured gasoline and lit a match, forever destroying this house of horrors and hopefully bringing peace to the innocents who perished there.

As to Dos Santos, Napoleon hoped he burned in hell. He couldn't have survived the fire...

The agents climbed into the jeep, driving off into the jungle, not saying a word.


End file.
